


mitzvah goreret mitzvah

by hypotheticalfanfic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hanukkah, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title translates roughly to "one good deed leads to another." In which there are nine presents and nine candles and latkes, and Eames trusts Arthur wholly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mitzvah goreret mitzvah

It’s snowing, sort of, the way it snows in California sometimes when the air is just barely cool enough to let the rain almost freeze, but the ground is so warm it doesn’t matter, really, in the end. Arthur hates snow, always has, otherwise why the fuck would he live in California? Growing up, he’d dreamed about sun-drenched beaches and blazing hot deserts, anywhere that wasn’t buried under wet cold gray mush for half the year. California’d seemed perfect, and it was most of the time, except when it sort of snows sometimes.

The only good thing about it almost kind of snowing is that Arthur gets to wear his thicker, woolen vests. He gets to dig out his favorite umbrella, the one with the heavy wooden handle that he bought in Paris (with Mal, although he doesn’t think about it like that if he can help it). He gets to wear scarfs his sister knitted — she’s a champion knitter, Amelia is, and Arthur smiles every time he loops one of her scarves around his neck. He gets some sort of nostalgic frisson out of removing the extra layers, too, when he gets to work and when he gets home. Shaking out the umbrella, unwinding the scarf, shrugging off the coat: it makes him feel younger, like he still lives back East with the family, like he’s just come in from sneaking cigarettes and kisses in the snow with boys from school.

And so when he sees a small silver menorah on his desk, he doesn’t react immediately, because of course there’s a menorah, it’s that time of year. But the next breath, he remembers who he is and that he doesn’t  _do_  any of the High Holidays, not really, not past a phone call to the family and a quiet whisper of regret. “Whose is that,” he asks, his voice carefully even. Ari’s desk is next to his, maybe it’s hers. Or maybe Cobb wants him to do research on something. 

“It’s mine, Arthur, I hope it’s not in your way.” Eames is grinning madly, the way he grins when — as Arthur has learned the hard way — he doesn’t want questions. “Your desk is the only one in the right place, you know, and besides it’s not like you’re using that corner.” 

It’s not worth the argument, and Eames’s manic grin is unsettlingly shark-like, so Arthur shrugs it off. He almost tells Eames that he’s a day early for Hanukkah, but bites it back: no reason to start a conversation he has no interest in finishing. Arthur puts his head down and works on personnel files until lunch, and pointedly ignores the empty candelabra while he talks mazes with Ari until dark, when everyone else goes home.

It’s at that point that he nearly screams, because fucking  _Eames_  lights the _shamash_  and uses it to light the first light, like he knows what he’s doing, and says the fucking blessings and his pronunciation is perfect, even though (as Arthur knows full well) Eames isn’t Jewish. Arthur bites back several elegant metaphor-laden phrases that translate to “fuck you” and watches Eames’s face in the candlelight. After half an hour, during which Arthur gets more work done and absolutely doesn’t get a little homesick, Eames blows them out and hands Arthur a small wrapped box. 

“Fuck you.” All his linguistic dexterity is for naught because, “Eames, you’re not Jewish, all right, and I’m not practicing, don’t fucking light the candles and give me presents, all right?”

Eames looks confused. “I know you don’t practice anymore, darling. I didn’t intend to be rude, just trying to celebrate the season with you.” He is giving off sincere vibes, the ones that say he legitimately isn’t trying to be an asshole. It doesn’t matter. Arthur storms off anyway, feeling a bit sheepish, forgetting his umbrella and still holding on to the little package.

The next day, it’s as if nothing has changed. The  _shamash_  and the first candle are still there, and Eames is casual and chatty and hitting on everyone in turns like always, and Arthur resigns himself to it. This time he doesn’t stay past sundown — it doesn’t matter. When he gets to work in the morning, there’s another small wrapped package on his desk and the second candle in the menorah.

Eight nights of this, and Arthur has piled each of Eames’s little presents on the dining room table he never uses, and it’s a Saturday morning and he’s not allowed to come in to work because Cobb wants a weekend with his kids. So Arthur is sitting at his table, in boxers and a tee shirt, staring at the presents. 

He had loved Hanukkah once, as a kid. He’d loved the way the candles smelled and smeared the air with thin smoke, the way the candlelight made everything look mysterious. He’d loved hearing his mother’s terrible Hebrew mangle the blessings and he’d loved arguing about what color candles to buy that year with his sister. He’d loved the half hour of quiet as they burned, the way his sister would settle and be still for once and rest her head on his shoulder. He’d loved the eight small presents they’d get, and he’d loved that on the last night they always got two. 

Eames knew that, somehow, because there were nine presents swaddled in various hideous wrapping papers. Arthur looked around furtively, feeling incredibly foolish because obviously no one was here to see.

He opened the first package, from the only night he’d stayed for the candles: a fine silk tie in the subtlest paisley he’s ever seen, a perfect present from Eames, the king of hideous prints.

The second: a handsome edition of  _The Hobbit_ , his favorite book as a child, something Eames no doubt pieced together with his freakish people-reading skills.

The third: two tickets to the midnight premiere of the new Batman movie, his slavering desire to see Arthur had thought he’d hid rather well. 

The fourth: a pair of thick woolen socks with little reindeer on them, the sort of ridiculous Hanukkah gift Arthur’d always hated as a kid. He pulls them on — his feet are cold in the empty room, it doesn’t mean anything.

The fifth: three small packets of vibrantly colored spices, the labels in a language he can’t read, something Eames got from Yusuf or another contact overseas. 

The sixth: a set of clever cufflinks shaped like red dice, which makes Arthur grin like an idiot because of course Eames got him cufflinks to match his totem, because that’s Eames, isn’t it?

The seventh: the boxed BluRay set of  _Sherlock_ , and Arthur makes a mental note to delete the slightly-less-than-legal copy he has on his personal laptop, as well as the copies on his work laptop and his external server.

The eighth: a Rubik’s cube, obviously vintage and just waiting to be solved. Arthur laughs and sets it aside — he’s in a better mood now, with Eames’s knack for presents making itself abundantly clear.

Arthur’s hands don’t shake a bit as he reaches for the ninth present, because he’s sure it will be something cute and funny like the others. Instead, it’s a worn and battered poker chip. Arthur drops the box and backs away, hears his phone ring. 

“What the fuck, Eames, you can’t give me your totem,” he pants out before he realizes he’s even answered it. Luckily it is Eames, who is strangely quiet. “Eames, the whole point of the totem is—”

“I know what the point is, Arthur,” which, of course he does, Arthur could kick himself.

“So then why?”

Eames takes in a breath. “Because I wasn’t sure how else to tell you that I trust you.”

Arthur is suddenly unsure of his next move, which is his least favorite feeling. A long, silent pause, during which Arthur looks over the pile of presents. Arthur thinks about Eames’s easy smile, his face in candlelight, his very good faking of a man unconcerned during the Fischer job. He thinks about Eames’s eyes watching everyone even when they didn’t seem to be, about the way Eames touches his bottom lip when he’s smoking or thinking, about Eames’s lack of pretension and love for shitty anything — fabrics, foods, cigarettes, whiskeys. 

“You still there, pet?”

“Come over.” Arthur gulps down a breath. 

Another pause, brief, and Arthur is about to panic, really, any second now. “Are you sure?”

“Come over and we’ll talk. That’s all I’m promising.” Another gulped breath. “For now.”

“Be there in a mo’, then, Arthur.” 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Arthur is pulling out olive oil and potatoes and heating a pan, and he’s making latkes like his mother always did, with the kick of green onion and a little cheese, because everything is better with cheese. And Eames is coming over, and they’ll talk, and more likely than not they’ll end up in bed, and Arthur is so, so grateful in a way he hasn’t been since he was young. 


End file.
